


The Reward for Valor

by Nao



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Joffrey Baratheon is His Own Warning, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-12
Updated: 2019-05-08
Packaged: 2019-11-15 23:06:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18082682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nao/pseuds/Nao
Summary: What if Littlefinger did more than just notice Arya in Harrenhal and decided to ingratiate himself to Tywin Lannister by outing her?





	1. Chapter 1

His father had thundered in to save them.  A last minute miracle that had entirely wiped clean his own very good deeds leading up to the battle. It was a pity really.  A bay full of broken hulls and burnt timbers, a giant chain as yet unpaid for, his mountain clans destroyed, and his face scarred beyond repair were all his reward.  That and his betrothed.  

Tyrion was not ungrateful for his life, not truly.  But he did often wonder what precisely he had done to win the ire of the gods.  He was no longer the Hand of the King.  He was no longer the heir, by law, to Casterly Rock.  He was just another Lannister relation that had to be given some duty in service of _The Family_.  

And that duty now was to make sure his Stark fiancée dutifully produced lions, not wolf pups.  And to perform monetary miracles like Littlefinger had before he’d ridden away North to secure the Vale.  

He’d tried asking the blasted man for advice before he’d left, but Baelish had no intention of revealing how he’d kept the realms solvent all these many years.  So Tyrion was left to figure it out himself, as always.  Besides what did a man who’d triumphantly returned Arya Stark to the loving embrace of King’s Landing have to fear from a man who was not the Hand of the King?

Nothing, that’s what.  And now the little animal and the Crown’s purse were his waking nightmare to handle.  One would have been enough, but two was like to put him in an early grave.  Which was probably what his father wanted.  Tyrion resolved that his father would _not_  kill him with paperwork.  It would be a stupid death.  

Death at the hands of his betrothed would be far more poetic.  It also happened to be likely.  The girl was quick, violent, and terribly, terribly young.  She’d managed somehow to make it to Harrenhal, his father had told him.  She’d even served as his cupbearer without giving herself away.  But Baelish, the snake, had spotted her during his visit there to arrange the alliance with the Tyrell family.  Then he’d outed her to his lord father and the girl had been packed off to the capitol.  

She hadn’t gone without a fight and had by all accounts made the guards escorting her pay in blood for every league traveled south.  When reunited with her sister, however, all the struggles had ceased.  Both of them had run to each other, weeping.  They’d hardly had a fortnight together before his lord father had summoned Tyrion, Jaime, and Cersei to a family meeting.  

“Jaime you will be resigning from the Kingsguard immediately,” Tywin had said.  He stood, towering over all his adult children, implacable as the rock their home was named for. 

“These vile rumors about you and your sister must be stopped.  And you’ve already dishonored your oath by killing Aerys anyway.”

“I don’t recall you ever complaining about the Mad King being gotten rid of.  And if I give up the cloak, what exactly is it that you expect me to do?” his brother had asked, visibly reining in his temper.  

Cersei shifted beside him as though to speak, and Tyrion held his breath, hoping in vain that she would say something stupid.  His father interrupted, “You will rule Casterly Rock, as you should have been learning to do all these many years.”

“Father really.  Jaime the Lord of Casterly Rock?  The walls of the castle would tumble down within the year,” Tyrion could not stop the jape from tumbling past his lips.  

His father did not deign to look at him as he replied, choosing to continue intoning his commands to his children, “Jaime will be the Lord of Casterly Rock after me, as he always should have been.  Cersei has generously done us the favor of setting a precedent for Kingsguards to be set aside.  Joffrey will set his uncle aside, as he did Barristan Selmy.  He has made me Hand of the King, in reward for my valor in battle, and I intend to set this kingdom to rights.”  

The snub was subtle, though Tyrion thought at least Cersei had caught it, given the whip-like glance full of glee she’d shot his way.  Tyrion waited, knowing that the best was yet to come.  

“Cersei, you will retire from the small council and move immediately into the Maidenvault.  It shall be renamed of course.  Widow’s vault or suchlike.  You may entertain the ladies of Highgarden as Tyrion and I arrange Joffrey’s wedding to the Tyrell girl.  Tyrion is to be the King’s Master of Coin.”  

 _Here it is_.   _Come Father, don’t keep me waiting._   Tyrion was still smarting from the pleasant talk he’d had with his father soon after the battle.  And even though he’d known walking away from his father was a terrible idea, he’d done it regardless.  It seemed as though his punishment was nigh. 

“A Lord of the Rock needs a wife, as does a man of the Small Council.  You two will marry the Stark sisters.  Jaime is the eldest so he shall take Sansa Stark to wife.  Tyrion, you’ll marry the younger one.  She needs someone who can outwit her, and you’ve proven that you have a brain.  You’ll need it to tame her.”

There was a silence.  Tyrion gazed at his father, feeling as though he’d quite underestimated the man who’d sired him.  The younger girl, Arya, had likely not even flowered.  She was twelve or maybe thirteen.  He recalled suddenly what he’d heard about the end of Robert’s Rebellion.  His father had sent the Mountain after Elia Martell and her children.  After the Mountain had plied his trade against the Crown Princess and her children, the corpses had been sent to his father.  Tyrion recalled hearing that his father had smiled.  

His father was a sick fuck.  

Tyrion glanced at his sister.  Her cheeks were aflame with blood, eyes trained on her lap.  He guessed she was holding back because she was still going to be near her beloved Joff and that mattered more than Jaime.  Jaime looked lost.  Tyrion supposed that he needed time to process the news that he was soon to be a married man.  

He glanced at his father, who was staring back at him, as though he’d been waiting for Tyrion’s eyes to meet his.  Tyrion had wondered sometimes as he grew, from whom Cersei’s cruelty stemmed.  By all accounts, Mother had been a sweet soul.  She’d been the one constant in their lives while their father was away at court.  Yet somehow, that sweetness had never been passed onto Cersei.  Looking into his father’s face, he could see just where that cruelty came from.  

Bowing his head, sharply, Tyrion dropped from his chair and walked away again.  He had no reason to stay really.  The rest of the family meeting would be Cersei bleating about how unfair it all was or Jaime ineffectually arguing against marrying Sansa.  In truth, marrying Lady Sansa and moving back to the Rock would probably be good for him.  The sweetness that Cersei had missed would be fostered by marrying that girl.  It was always easy for Jaime to play the hero when someone was there to encourage him.  Away from his twin, his better nature would likely win out.  

Though he did wonder just how his father thought the Young Wolf would react to the news that both of his sisters were being married to Lannisters.  He laughed, remembering the boy greeting him on his return from Castle Black with a naked sword on his knees.  He rather thought his father was going to regret this.  

* * *

Lady Sansa had cried at her wedding.  She cried at the banquet.  She cried as his brother bowed to pressure and let the bedding ceremony go forward.  His shit of a nephew had giggled, as the men attending had ripped the gown from around her shoulders.  Tyrion had hung back, not wishing to take part but feeling his father’s eyes upon him.  

A glance upward had shown him the girl’s stark blue eyes.  They were perfectly round, the pupils blown wide.  She saw him and held his gaze as they finally brought her to her chamber.   Was she staring at him because she hated him?  Did she remember that he’d protected her from Joffrey once and hoped he’d protect her again?  Whatever it was, her gaze pinned him to the floor.   

Then Jaime came.  The gaze between them was broken as the women propelled him through the door into the chamber, laughing and making jokes.  He was wearing less than Sansa, but he stood tall nevertheless with the golden hand strapped to his arm catching the light.  

Slowly, the room emptied, and Tyrion let himself be shuffled out in the crush.  He didn’t want to see the girl’s face.  He had nightmares enough.  

Once out in the hall, he pushed through the crowd and forced his way out.  There was no reason to return to the banquet and listen to more of Joff’s ill thought jokes.  Bed was preferable.  Perhaps he might come across Varys along the way and the two of them could find a way for him to see Shae.  Though the closer he came to his own apartment, the more he felt the urge to leave the stuffiness of the castle.  

At the base of the stairs, he made up his mind to seek some peace out of doors.  Pushing open a door, he found himself making his way to the battlements.  The air was cleaner up here, and there was even the hint of a chill.  Tyrion closed his eyes and held himself still, allowing himself to shiver.  

“How was my sister’s wedding?” the voice sounded loud in his ear and Tyrion sucked in a breath.  He jumped to the side, eyes snapping open to look for whoever it was.  

“You scare easy,” the voice belonged to Arya Stark.  She sat at the top of one of embrasures, looking like a gargoyle.  She hopped down and landed light on her feet.  Tyrion had the crazed thought that if all else failed, he and his betrothed might make a good addition to a mummer’s troupe.  Someone had taught the girl to fight and he knew some tumbling.  They would make a good team.  He batted the thought away.  

“I’m not much accustomed to finding people up here this time of night.  Shouldn’t you be in bed?” It was probably the stupidest thing he could have said, and the knowledge reflected itself on Arya’s face.  

“I’m to sleep while my sister is being raped?” She approached him.  When they stood close enough to touch, she stopped.  

“Did you sleep much while your brother was held captive by my lady Mother?  And how am I supposed to sleep when my own wedding is tomorrow?” the girl laughed.  

The sound grated on Tyrion’s ears.  It was a harsh noise, and seemed more suited for a rugged battle veteran, not a girl of thirteen.  

“I am sure Lady Sansa is being treated kindly by my brother.  He would not hurt her—,”

“He’s a Lannister.  Just like you’re a Lannister.  All you lot know how to do is hurt people,” the reply came quick.  The girl turned away dismissively before Tyrion could do much more than open his mouth.  

“My lady,” she stopped, back turned away from him.  “My brother may be called the Kingslayer, but he does not hurt little girls.  And neither do I.  You will not come to harm when we are married, I promise you.”  

“A Lannister promised my sister something once.  Then they broke that promise.  I don’t believe you,” she strode away and Tyrion shut his mouth on a retort.  There wasn’t much to say.  For all of Varys’ talk about him being the kind of man the realm needed, it was no less true that he was uncle to a boy both short-sighted and insane.  He sighed, looking out across the city again.  It was going to be morning sooner rather than later.   He may as well go find Bronn and Pod and get a last drink in.  

* * *

“They invite us to attend the weddings of my sisters in the Great Sept of Baelor.  The lady Sansa Stark is to be wed to Jaime Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock.  The younger lady Arya will be wed to Tyrion, the King’s Master of Coin,” Robb’s voice shook.  He let the scroll wind its way up in his hand, looking down at it.  The piece of paper deserved to be crushed, but Talisa and Mother were watching.  They would be afraid enough without seeing him rip a letter to shreds.  He put it down gently.  

“Robb,” his mother’s voice trembled from where it sounded close behind him.  “Robb, give it to me.”

He turned to face her slowly, hand hovering over the scroll.  Her face was like stone.  It came to him sometimes, that his mother was young still.  Rickon had been born only five summers past.  And he was dead.  Along with Bran and Father and almost everyone else they had loved.  Was there even still a point to forcing Uncle Edmure into wedding the Freys?  Was the potential for a lifetime of enmity between the Tullys and the Starks worth placating the Freys?  Was there even a point to this war?  

Father was dead.  Winterfell was sacked.  His sisters were bound to their Lannister captors for life.  Perhaps they should lay down their arms and armor and go home.  

Then as his mother snatched the scroll from beneath his hand and he watched her face crumple, he felt ashamed.  And though he’d meant to do it all along, he wrapped his arms around his mother in a hug.  She’d done the same for him, countless times.  She never gave up.  If his sisters were alive, then he had no excuse.  They would find another way to free them.  

Around them, the tent flapped in the breeze.  They were close to the Twin’s; a day’s ride away at the most.  Yet, Sansa and Arya could not wait, not with the pace the Lannister’s were setting.  He loosed his arms from around his mother, and peered down at her.  “Mother,” Robb hesitated, “I have an idea.”


	2. Chapter 2

There had not quite been swords at the ceremony, but the sept had glittered gold all the same.  Gold cloaks, chain mail flashing bright enough to blind a man, had stood at every entryway, had lined the steps, had held back the massing crowds, hoping for a crumb.  Through it all, his little wife had been mute.  

The girl who’d been so lively and cruel the eve before stood beside him, vitriol masked except in the way her eyes, gimlet sharp, latched onto his as they recited the words.  Tyrion did not want to think on precisely how his sister and Father had achieved the girl’s complaisance.  But he could guess well enough.  One look at Sansa Stark’s pale face and tear reddened eyes showed him the way of it.

Now they were wedded, and trapped in a room together.  Until one of them breathed their last.  Or the sun rose.  The night before Bronn had started odds on which of them would croak first.  Pod had broken ranks already and put his money on Lady Arya winning.  He was tempted to place a bet himself.  On the girl of course.  

She’d said the words, and they were one heart, one flesh, one soul.  Not that he’d dared to lay a kiss on the girl.  No doubt she would have sheared his lips from his face with her teeth alone.

Now, though, she stood planted near the door like a young sapling, reed thin and vibrating.  Despite himself, despite the possibility that she had a dagger hidden in her dress, and was waiting for him to approach, Tyrion extended a hand toward her and spoke gently.  

“My lady, we may as well sit, wouldn’t you say?” He took a small step toward the table between them.  The wine flask shone atop it, two goblets turned down beside it.  He took another step and ignored how she shifted away from him.  When he was at the table, he stepped up and sat, sighing.  

“You’ll be too young yet for much wine, but perhaps with water?” Tyrion asked, feeling suddenly like he was in the midst of a farce.  He was trying to tame a wolf, with nothing but wine and sweet words.  Silence greeted him, and he shrugged laying a hand on a cup and the flask and poured himself a generous portion.

“Trying to get yourself drunk before you force yourself on me?” The girl’s voice emerged, sneering and at odds with her pale and set face.

“I don’t believe I’ll be able to force you to do anything you don’t wish, my lady,” Tyrion replied.  He gazed into his cup, not wishing to confront her looking at him.  It was true enough that his father had told him to consummate the marriage.  But the girl was a child still.  With a child’s flatness, a child’s voice, a child’s face.  He couldn’t do it, and he wouldn’t.  He’d decided that much.  The rest depended on the girl herself.

“Doesn’t mean you won’t try,” she returned and sat with a crash in the other chair.  Tyrion snorted and drank off another swallow.  

“The only thing I intend to try in this room is to broker a peace, get drunk, and sleep til noon tomorrow.”  He looked up at her then.  She eyed him, gaze narrowed and suspicious.  Planting her arms on the table so that the flask shook on its tray, she leaned close.  “A peace.  Between you and me.  All you Lannister’s think peace is another word for surrender.”

“A truce then?” Tyrion replied.  “A time to think and contemplate the future.  You’re quite young yet, and I’m not especially elderly.  If my family wins, you and I will be together a long, long time.  We may as well start thinking now about what that will look like.”

“If your family wins, then that means my mother and brothers will all be dead.  Sansa and I will be long dead too, I bet.  You’ll rape us, get children on us, and throw us into the Black Cells like you did my father,” she turned on him a death skull grin.  “If you can.”

Tyrion paused for a long moment, wondering at the menace so young a girl could bring to bear.  He raised his goblet toward her and downed what was left.  “I have no intention of laying a finger on you, my lady.  Not for many years yet, and by then, I think you will see for yourself that there are some men of honor who last name is Lannister.”  He put down his goblet and pushed away from the table.  

“I am going to sleep, not drunk, though I wish I were, and you and I will speak on things in the morning.  I pray you, don’t kill me in my sleep.”  He slid from the chair, blaming the way his knees wobbled on the wine on an empty belly and not the high likelihood that he’d wake in the night with his cock halfway sawn off.  What had possessed him to say that he intended to ever lay with her, he could not say.  But her eyes followed him, lit with a fire as dreadful as the one he’d lit in Blackwater Bay.  

* * *

The morning came, and so did the maidservants.  Eventually.  Arya had curled herself into a ball in front of the door, her weight stopped it from opening more than a fingerbreadth.  She jumped up at the sound of their voices, nearly crashing headlong into the table.  The noise of her stumbling and the sound of the servants’ voices forced Tyrion to open his eyes.  He pushed himself upright, feeling as sour as his breath smelled.  

“If you would but give us a moment.  My little wife is quite shy.  It was a sleepless night,” Tyrion called to the maids who shut the door, already murmuring.  He pulled a face at them once it was shut and looked over at the girl.  She stood near the door still, dress rumpled, hair frizzled.  She looked like a puppy, not the wolf of the night before.  It was that which opened his mouth.  “A little lie to ease our way, Lady Arya.  That is all.  You and I are partners now, and must protect ourselves.  Me from my father and you from all these snakes at court.  My sister and her son included.”

The girl drew up tall, suddenly, and surveyed him close, bright eyes narrowed in thought.  She drew a corner of her lip between her teeth, worried it between her teeth.  “What would you want me to do?”

“In public, we shall be friends, my lady.  You will dance at gatherings, go to your lessons, have meals with your sister.  Manage to keep from stabbing myself, the King, his mother, or my brother and we may make it through all this yet.”

“I’m shite at dancing,” she replied.  The lip, childishly chewed and reddened now, popped free.  “But I’ll play this game.  And when it’s done, and my brother Robb comes South to save me and Sansa, I’ll tell him you weren’t a bad sort.”  Tyrion smothered the smile that threatened.  Robb Stark had started a foolish war.  This was no hour of the Wolf.  The Lannister and Tyrell armies stood ready to defend from Reach to the Rock itself.  The Riverlands were burning.  And the Freys.  Well, they were as changeable as the sea.  

All of which Tyrion saw no reason to burden the girl with.  She was as near to smiling as he had yet seen her.  Which was to say, not actively scowling.  She was a pretty child.  No candle to her sister, but then he was no paragon when stood next to either of his siblings.  They had that in common.  Arya approached him, stuck out her hand, and waited.  Tyrion raised his hand and grasped her fingers, brought them to his lips, as he’d been taught and brushed the back of her, gently.  He smiled at her consternation.  “You may as well start pretending to be a lady right here.  Plenty of ladies know to ride and fight as well they can dance and sing.  My aunt Gemma was one of them, long ago.”

“What was she like, your Aunt?” the girl asked, scrubbing her hand over the rumpled mess of her skirts.  Tyrion shook his head.  “Let’s have the maids in, shall we.  And when they’ve brought us our meal, I’ll tell you as many stories as you like about my aunt.”  Arya nodded, moving off to sit on the bed.  Tyrion bustled over to the door, feeling rather proud of himself.  Matrimonial harmony was close at hand.  All it took was a night on a settle as hard as sandstone bricks and a clear head.  He pulled the door open, waving the girls in and made for the privy, as they fluttered around the girl. 

* * *

 

“She will not do it.”

“You haven’t even met her; how can you say that she won’t do it?  We have three Starks to sell, Mother, and another coming along shortly,” Robb nodded to Talisa, who glared back at him.  He wondered how things like this worked among the old families of Volantis.  Perhaps there would be a nasty letter from his lady’s mother.  It was as well that he’d been quite poor at reading High Valyrian.  Jon had been the best at that.  Jon and Bran.  

“Three Starks,” his mother’s voice rumbled low in her chest.  The storm shadowing her brow clouded her words with a snarl of anger.  “He is no Stark.”

“He’s my father’s son, I am sorry Mother, but that’s the truth of it.  And we need him, bastard blood or no.  We cannot trust the Freys can we?  Uncle Edmure is next to useless at the best of times.  The Karstarks, the Umbers, all our Northern lords.  They're losing faith.  To win them back, to win Winterfell back, to get the girls back, we need allies.  And to get allies, we need Jon.”  Robb stopped, chest heaving, mouth open to say more but Talisa had caught his eye.

His mother turned half away from him, skirts swishing across the swept dirt.  She was as angry as he had ever seen her, the lines of her brow and cheeks bit deep.  “As you say, Your Grace.  But bind him well, Robb.  He cannot be allowed to think that he can ever take your place.  I will not suffer another Theon to betray us.”

“He won’t.  He is our blood.  Theon never was, no matter what words he said,” Robb hesitated, and then came toward her.  He reached a hand toward her arm and rested it there.  “Thank you Mother.  You’ll see.  The Watch will release him and the Tyrells will be glad of the chance to rid themselves of the Lannister boy.”

She nodded, stiff as an ironwood plank, and stepped out past the tent’s opening.  Robb watched her go, only stirring himself when Talisa wrapped her arm in his.  “Bastardy is a strange concept.  But infidelity between a woman and her husband, I can understand this pain.  You push her too hard.”

“I don’t have a choice, love.  The Freys cannot be trusted,” Robb replied.  When Talisa made no reply, he glanced down at her.  Her dark eyes met his and slowly moved away.  She unwound their arms and bent to take up her basket.  “There’s always a choice.  Look,” she opened the cover of and shook its contents at him.  Spools of thread, a hammer, needles, the bright smell of myrtle greeted him.  “Right at this moment, I’m choosing to go be useful as more than just the mother of your child.”

Robb grimaced, but she marched away from him, shaking her head, the boy he’d set to help her, tumbling in her wake.  He watched until she was gone from sight, and sighed.  She was not wrong.  There was always a choice.  Father made his, to deny the Lannister bastards their claim.  Mother made hers when she freed Jaime Lannister from his bondage.  And here he was, matchmaking like an old crone, instead of leading his Northmen in battle.  Even Grey Wind was listless, where he lay on the mud beyond the tent.  As though the beast heard his thoughts, Grey Wind opened his eyes to look at him and then yawned, great pink tongue lolling out.

Robb went over to him and crouched to scratch between his ears.  “We’re doing the right thing, aren’t we?  Jon doesn’t belong up there.  I should have called for him before.  If I’d had him defending the castle, maybe Winterfell wouldn’t have fallen.  Maybe Theon wouldn’t have dared...,” Robb sighed and stood.  There was no telling what Theon would or wouldn't have done.  What was done, was done.  

“Your Grace, a rider from Greywater Watch.”  The voice of his guardsman, Len, sounded behind him, and Robb turned to nod at the man.  The crannogman, for that was what he was, short and pale as Father had once described, bowed, a case clutched between his fists.  

“Well met, ser.  What brings you all this way?”

“A missive, Your Grace, from milord. To be read in private, if it please you.”  Robb watched the man for a moment, and then reached out a hand for the case.  The courier passed it over easy enough, and Grey Wind showed the man as little interest as he would a blade of grass.  

“I thank you.  Go, find yourself some food and drink before you return to your home.  Len will show you where,” Robb spoke and watched the two men bow and turn away.  He looked down at the box, sealed with wax, and running with lizard-lions along the edges.  

Howland Reed had little and less to do with the war, and Robb had not laid any tasks on the man.  He’d trusted him to hold the Neck, as Father had done, for long years.  So this message, whatever it was, was a curiosity.  He settled himself to opening it, pushed away the tent flap and walked through to the bench that served for a table.  Reaching across the table for a knife, he slid the point through the hardened wax and pried the lid away.  Within lay two scrolls.  Robb picked up the first and unrolled it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all the kind souls who left awesome comments!I hope that you will enjoy this next bit (which is admittedly, still setting things up). But, I'm working on the next chapter right now and that will cover a much greater span of time/plot. Thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Since I know where I'm going with this now, I'm reposting it.


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